Double Contact (16 page)

One flash of light followed two seconds later by another, then two flashes in rapid succession. He repeated the process with three, four, and five flashes as he tried to demonstrate simple addition as well as his own possession of intelligence. A change in the other's emotional radiation, a sudden feeling of interest, an understanding combining with the background curiosity, told him that he had succeeded.

It was an immediate and present response to his first attempt at communication, but now he needed to know if he could continue the process at long range.

“Friend Fletcher,” he said, “you've seen and known what I've been doing. I'm going to stop using my helmet light. Instead I want you to duplicate the sequence and timing, but using your ship's external hull lighting. I won't be able to see
Rhabwar
from here, so please tell me as soon as you begin.”

“Right, Doctor,” said the captain. “I'll need a moment to … You've got it.”

He didn't need the other's words because the survivor was reacting exactly as it had done to his helmet light, although the curiosity it was radiating was becoming tinged with impatience. Plainly it was wondering what he was going to do next. That made two of them.

“Thank you, friend Fletcher,” he said. “You can stop signaling now.”

He had expected but was still relieved at the confirmation that the visual communication could be continued from the ambulance ship, either by himself or—if he was undergoing one of his frequent periods of regenerative unconsciousness—by one of the others. But abruptly his relief was obliterated by a sudden explosion of fear from the survivor. Even the movements of its robot had become agitated.

“I'm not doing anything,” he said sharply into his communicator. “What's happening out there?”

“Nothing much,” the captain replied promptly. “In order to save time loading and off-loading it from the pinnace, Dodds is using his suit thrusters to bring the holo projector to you. It's an awkward piece of equipment but he can manage; in fact he's about to land on the hull as we speak.…”

“Dodds,” said Prilicla urgently, “don't move! The alien survivor is terrified. Turn back until I can find out why.”

But he already knew why. The holo projector was a large, intricate, and completely harmless piece of equipment, but the survivor didn't know that. While its attention was being directed at
Rhabwar
's lights, it had seen Dodds, one of the DBDG life-forms which for some reason frightened it, about to land on its ship with what it must have thought was a weapon. Except in the areas where the hull was damaged the ship had external defenses.
Terragar
had learned that, to its cost. But now it seemed there were no comparable internal defenses.

A porcupine didn't need spines on the inside.

As well as being sensitive to others' emotions, Prilicla knew that he was a good projective empath. But he also knew that there was no way to make a being who was in the grip of intense fear feel good, or at least a little better, without first removing the source. That was why he concentrated all of his considerable empathic ability into the projection of reassurance, sympathy, and trust at a level of intensity that he could not maintain for more than a few minutes. He also gesticulated on the off-chance that the survivor could understand the gestures he was making while he spoke into his communicator.

“I'm pointing back the way I came,” he said, “then making pushing motions with my hands to give the impression that I'm barring entry to anyone else. By now the survivor should have seen friend Dodds turning back. I think it's working. The fear is diminishing.…”

Prilicla continued to emote feelings of reassurance and sympathy until he was forced to stop and rest his brain for a moment, but by then the survivor's feelings had returned to normal, or at least to the level they had been before the approach of Dodds. But there was still concern in the other's mind which was not for itself.

The robot followed close behind him as he turned and moved out of the passageway, past the
T
-junction to the door opposite. It made no attempt to interfere when he pressed the actuator buttons on the opposite door. As well as being its sole protector, he was beginning to think that it was the only source of vision that the first survivor had.

The door opened into another passageway that was identical in size and layout to the one he had just left, but there the resemblance ended. Only two of the lighting units came on as the door opened so that he had to use his helmet light to see through the transparent access hatches.

“Are you seeing this?” he said again, unnecessarily. “The plumbing and circuitry in this area has sustained damage.”

“We see it, Doctor,” replied the captain, who must have joined Haslam in Control. “And there are signs that someone has been trying to effect repairs.”

Two of the pipe junctions had been wrapped in some form of metalized, adhesive tape, but not tightly enough to prevent a haze of air or vaporized fluid from fogging the joints. Behind the other hatches he could see that many of the visible cable looms were showing patches of heat discoloration, and several had been ruptured. One group, which bore the color-coding indicating that it led from the hull sensors, had been pulled apart, opened up, and the fine, hair-thin individual strands of wiring fanned outwards in preparation for splicing.

The repair work was nowhere near completion.

Prilicla indicated the areas of damage in turn, pointing at the robot each time, then he pointed several times towards the damage and to himself. He was trying to ask two questions—whether the robot was responsible for the attempted repairs, and if Prilicla would be allowed to help complete the work. If the robot or its director understood him, there was no way as yet that they could answer. He moved to the inner door.

It was no surprise that the robot was there first, its body covering the actuator buttons to bar his entrance. But for now he would be content to touch the mind rather than the body on the other side of the door.

The general emotional texture was the same as he had detected from the other survivor, but the content was shockingly different. This time there was physical as well as emotional trauma. He couldn't even guess at what was causing the physical discomfort, but there was a feeling of constriction, possibly of suffocation, that was overlaid by fear, despair, and the dreadful, negative emotion characteristic of utter isolation. He edged a little closer to the door and, as he had done earlier, concentrated on projecting reassurance, friendship, and sympathy.

It took longer this time, possibly because he was tiring again, but finally there was a reaction. Faintly, through the cloud of negativity he detected surprise, curiosity, and a feeling of hope. He began using his helmet light, but there was no change in the other's emotional radiation. He asked the captain to duplicate the sequence with the ship's lighting. Still there was no response.

“Friend Fletcher,” he said, hiding his feelings with unemotional words, “I have detected the presence of a second alien survivor. Its emotional radiation suggests that they are not in contact or presently aware of each other. The first one is distressed but not seriously injured. The second one, whose sensory and life-support systems are compromised as a result, I feel sure, of it being closer to the damaged side of their ship, is injured and short of food, air, and water. It is also deaf, dumb, and blind.

“Full communications with and between the two aliens must be established as soon as possible,” he ended, “and both survivors must be extricated and treated without delay.”

“Doctor,” said the captain, “just how will we manage that?”

“Thankfully I am not the specialist in other-species technology, friend Fletcher,” he replied. “I'm returning to my quarters now to rest. Perhaps the solution will come to me in my sleep.”

CHAPTER 16

The
Terragar
casualties were progressing well enough to have their litters moved outside for a few hours each day so that the psychological therapy of fresh air and sunshine could reinforce the effects of her medication. The sun would warm and relax and tan the pallor of long service in space from their bodies and, because this world's ionization layer was intact, there would be no harmful aftereffects. But she could not spend all of her free time in ministering-angel mode and saying reassuring things to her patients even though, because of them being officers and presumably gentlemen, they did not object to her company or comment on her abbreviated dress. Now that their burns were healing to the point where there was no longer the risk of her Earth-human pathogens getting to them, she was not wearing her breathing mask and white coveralls.

Murchison's intention was to walk completely around the island over the firm sand by the water's edge. From their first hilltop observations three days earlier, she had estimated that the trip would take just under two hours and, while nobody had ever accused her of being antisocial, she would have preferred to walk alone and avoid having to tell therapeutic half-truths to a colleague.

The casualties had progressed to the stage where they were becoming restive and worrying less about whether or not they would survive than how soon the transfer to Sector General for their reconstructive surgery would take place. Danalta and Naydrad were asking the same questions, which were valid and deserving of straight answers, but she had no hard information to give them because she hadn't been given any herself.

When asked, during her daily report to
Rhabwar,
the captain had stated that it was a medical matter and referred her to her boss. Prilicla, in its gentle, inoffensive, but totally immovable fashion, said that the timing was uncertain because they were trying to communicate with and extricate two other-species casualties from the alien vessel, that there were complications and the answer was “not soon.”

She had passed this information on to Naydrad and Danalta but not to the patients. They might be disturbed by the thought that very soon the two beings who had been responsible for destroying their ship might be lying in the beds beside theirs.

Obviously Danalta had grown tired of being a multicolored beach-ball shape and had changed itself into a more challenging shape, that of a Drambon Roller.

Outwardly it was a perfect replica of the CLHG physiological classification native to the planet Drambo, although she doubted that even Danalta could mimic the complex movements of the original creature's internal organs which enabled it to roll continuously from the moment of partuition until the end of its life.

Physically, a water-breathing Roller resembled an animated doughnut that rotated vertically on its outer edge, with a fringe of short, manipulatory tentacles sprouting from the inner circumference and curving outwards on both sides to give balance at slow speeds. Between the roots of the tentacles she could see that the shape-changer had perfectly reproduced the series of gills as well as the visual equipment which operated coeleostat fashion to compensate for its constantly rotating field of vision. The original life-form had used a gravity feed system for circulation rather than a muscular pump, which was why they died quickly when age, weakness, accident, or an attacking predator caused them to fall on their sides and stop rotating. Her first experience of giving CPR to a stopped Drambon had been like rolling a floppy, half-inflated ground car's inner tube around underwater. She laughed suddenly.

“That's very good, Doctor,” she said. “If there were another Drambon on the island, it would find you irresistible.”

Ahead of her, the doughnut shape made a right-angle turn, stopped, and bent almost double in a bow of appreciation at the compliment. Then it melted and slumped into a shapeless mound of green jelly which sprouted vertically into a tall, erect, yellowish-pink shape which oozed and melted into a near-perfect, two-thirds–scale replica of Murchison herself.

It was smaller than she was because Danalta was constrained by the limits of its own body mass and, although the detail in the eyes, ears, and fingernails was very good, the edges of her white swimsuit, hair, and eyebrows merged into the adjacent skin coloration like the uniform and features painted on a toy soldier. She gave an involuntary shudder.

Murchison had seen Danalta take some weird and often repulsive shapes with a minimum of inner distress, but for some reason this one was making her feel really uncomfortable.

“Why don't you go for a walk up to the hill?” Murchison said, more sharply that she had intended. “I'm safe enough here on the beach. No insects, no crabs, no fish, or amphibians in the water to crawl out and attack me. You might find something more interesting to mimic inland.”

“No danger large enough to see,” said the smaller Murchison, “but we're on an alien planet, remember?”

Being reminded of the obvious had always irritated her, especially when, as now, she needed the reminder. Even so, it was very difficult to believe that this wonderful place was not on Earth. She didn't reply.

“So far we've seen only one species of animal,” said Danalta, “unless the others are hiding from us, and that one is boring to mimic. But I sense your annoyance. I'm sorry. Pathologist, is this body configuration not to your liking?”

The half-sized Murchison, with the exception of its communications-and-translator pack, began to subside like melting wax into a pink, sluglike shape with a tiny mouth and a large, single eye. The real Murchison concentrated on looking out to sea.

Apologetically, it went on. “If you would rather walk alone without distractions, I can take on an aquatic form and keep pace with you without holding conversation. Or if you would like to immerse yourself for a while, I can serve as a protective escort, should one be necessary, although there is no evidence of any threat here, from the land, sea, or air.”